Out of Sand and Dust
by NotMarge
Summary: He wasn't always a War Boy. At least he doesn't think so. Nux Pre Fury Road
1. Out of Sand and Dust

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road.

I am drinking loads of water, tho.

Out of Sand and Dust

* * *

"What is your name?"

His name.

The shiny, chrome one, the one with the flame hair laying beside him in the fuel tow, wanted to know his name. Her with the soft fingers and softer voice. The one who had found him.

His name.

"Nux."

Her deep blue eyes searched his quietly .

"Nux." She seemed to think about it briefly before responding. "What does that mean?"

He shrugged, feeling the familiar weight of Larry and Barry slowly constricting his windpipe.

"I don't know. It's just what they call me."

And the unfamiliar sensation of soft skin touching his.

"Did you ever have another name? One before the Citadel?"

Before the Citadel?

That was an almost unfathomable thought.

Had there ever been anything before the Citadel?

He sometimes thought there might be.

He had only flashes of fragments of dreams. He didn't even know if they were real.

* * *

The little boy stood quietly next to the man. Stood still and stared at the sand and his own poorly shod feet. As instructed.

 _Don't look 'em in the eye, boy. Don't give 'em any more reason to notice you._

And so he stood, dirty brown haired head down. And listened to the man talk.

Talk to another man. A hungry man. A man almost as hungry as the first.

"Five gallons of guzziline for the woman."

The man beside the boy shook his head.

"Naw, she ain't for sale."

The hungry man grunted.

"Everythin's for sale, mate ."

The man shook his head again.

"Naw."

The hungry man grunted.

"What about that, then?"

The boy felt the hungry man gesture toward him as he continued speaking.

"Boy or girl, might not be much different from behind."

The boy did not understand what that meant, only that it caused a stone to set itself heavily in the pit of his stomach.

The man next to the boy growled.

"No."

To which the hungry man grunted.

"I might just skiv ya and take 'em both anyway. Save myself the guzziline."

The boy, his heart beginning to pound, studied his feet more intently than ever.

And heard the click of a round being chambered.

"No deal. Now give us pass."

The hungry man's glare beat upon the pair nearly so much as the searing wasteland sun above them.

He was weighing them, measuring them. Judging the prize against the battle.

Finally he grunted again.

"Careful on your travels then, mate. Lotsa people 'round these parts ain't as gentlemanly as myself. You might find more trouble than you're looking for."

The man next to the boy clamped a rough hand on the back of the boy's neck and led him away back to the bikes.

"We got safe way," he informed the heavily wrapped woman on the bag laden bike . "But we better move quick before they change their minds."

She nodded and revved the engine.

The man straddled his own bike

The boy got on behind his father.

And once more felt safe.

Enough .

* * *

 **Interested in a little Nux backstory here?**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Worth Fighting For

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road.

I am drinking loads of water, tho.

Out of Sand and Dust

Worth Fighting For

* * *

"Do you remember where you come from? Before the Citadel? Before you were a War Boy?"

She asks such difficult questions, the shiny, red haired, chrome one.

Such intriguing questions.

And his sickness damaged, fumed addled brain struggles to answer them.

Because, his grey matter whispers, the answers must be important.

Though he's not really sure why.

* * *

Creating new life in the post apocalyptic wasteland is not easy.

It's the dry, the near constant dehydration, the near constant starvation that takes away the proclivity to put forth effort to engage in reproductive activities.

Survival becomes so that much more important than fleeting pleasures.

Still and all, babies do appear on the face of the wasteland from time to time, born into the sand and dust.

And then keeping them alive becomes the real challenge.

Thirst, hunger, the daily crushing pressure of pointless, endless misery becomes too much for many to bear.

A quick, suffocating, merciful death seems the most logical route for many until the deed is done and it's too late to take it back.

Happens as much as you'd think, maybe more.

And so children, living, breathing children, are a precious, rare commodity.

And a continous challenge to keep going.

You don't dare care too much about them for fear they will crumble and blow away like chaff on the dry, harsh wind.

And you definitely do not dare to actually love them.

* * *

The dusty, sandy expanse of nothingness seemed to stretch on forever in every direction . The boy stood in the middle of it, oblivious to the heat and dry. It was all he had ever known.

He stared at the arid emptiness because there was nothing else at which to stare.

"Boy."

He turned to see the man in ragged clothing and poorly shaved face

The two shared little resemblance save for one feature .

Bright blue eyes .

The elder man's were hard chips of ice buried deep in his his leathered, worn face.

The boy's were brighter, less hard, set lightly in a face that had endured much less hardship and witnessed much less misery .

There were eyes that still held youth and hope.

His scraggly dark hair was thick with sand and grit, even as his mother reached out a roughened hand to brush through it.

He was her only child, the only one of several to survive the harshness of their wandering, brutal existence. And so he was valuable, of great importance to them. A well constructed, even featured male, strong and healthy and viable.

Perfect, according to his mother, in every way.

And she loved him.

As did his father.

Which was a rare thing in the Wasteland.

And something worth fighting for.

* * *

 **Hey, wonderful people! Thanks for checking out this story and giving it a chance! Thanks especially to the 1upguy (once again reading something he's never seen), DinahRay (also reading the unseen), and brigid1318 for speaking up wit those reviews. You guys are great!**


	3. In a Hopeless Place, There is Beauty

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road.

Am drinking loads of water tho.

Out of Sand and Dust

In a Hopeless Place, There is Beauty

* * *

There's no time for kindness, for warmth, for hesitation.

Not now.

Because the Bullet Farmer is closing in behind them as the War Rig mires its massive weight in the morass of moist sand.

So there's no time for anything but sheer fight and determined survival.

But when she snaps the chain with the boltcutters, freeing up more length to loop around the tree thing, he nods in satisfaction and dives in.

Pecking her cheek with his silver-stained, arid lips, way back near her soft cheekbone.

He doesn't think about why he does it or if he should.

He just does.

And runs for it.

Toward the tree thing.

And it works.

And they live a while longer.

* * *

The night stars are bright overhead, a solitary beauty in the midst of this desolate wasteland, it seems. There are so many more to see, now that the electric lights of civilization have been forever doused by the long past apocalypse.

But for now that is ok.

Because the night is pitch dark and the stars bright and gleaming overhead.

And they are together.

The man and woman sit close, the boy between them.

Some of the stars move across the sky as others stay still and the boy wonders at them.

He catches his parents gazing down on him from time to time and he returns their unspoken companionship, unaware that there is anything better than what he has right then.

The day was long but the hard ride uneventful. No attacks, no negotiations for safe passage.

A good day.

When they stopped for rest, they caught three desert lizards. One for each of them and it seemed like a treat, like a feast, to ingest the solidity of their whole bodies and the sparse fluids contained within.

So much better than mud cake or simply an empty belly.

So now they sit and watch the stars and listen to the silence.

Taking comfort in the presence of one another.

And they breathe.

Every so often the man moves and brushes his lips against the woman's cheek or forehead.

And her eyes meet his with a look of contentment or a ghost of a smile.

The boy does not mention this reoccurrence because he has already asked after it and received his reply.

"Why do you do that? What does it mean?"

The man had chuckled, deep in his dry throat and the woman surresshed softly.

"It's called a kiss," she had responded. "It can mean many things. Love, appreciation, friendship."

"Why is it on the cheek?"

Her fingers, so strong and sure on the trigger of a shotgun or the handlebars of her motorbike, grazed his cheekbone gently.

"It's a sign of respect. To kiss the lips steals one's moisture. Moisture keeps us alive out here."

And the boy had absorbed her words, reveled in her kind touch.

He did not notice her frown, did not see her eyes darken as she grazed his shoulder, feeling the growing bumps there.

Sometimes they itched and he scratched and scratched, trying not to complain because there were enough worries to be had for them all.

But though his mother did, he did not take notice of them or care just then.

Because he was watching the stars.

* * *

 **I read somewhere that Nux's family was unique because they actually loved each other and took care of each other.**

 **So I'm sure you'll let me know what you think, yeah?**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for keeping up with this meandering story. Hope you enjoy :)**


	4. And Loss

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road.

Am drinking loads of water tho.

Out of Sand and Dust

And Loss

* * *

The night was waning as the War Rig plowed ever onward at a steady, monotonous pace.

He sat in the cab with them, one foot propped up against the frame of the missing vehicle door.

Him, the cast-off, traitor War Boy.

And his siren.

The red haired, quiet, chrome one.

She rested against him, her breathing even and restful.

How she, such a soft, delicate thing could find reprieve in the harsh wasteland, he did not know.

But she was here and he was here so he let her be.

Her long hair moved in the breeze and tickled his V-8 emblazoned skin.

He didn't mind.

He just kept his eyes closed, kept his body still.

And let it be.

* * *

The woman, his mother, was sick.

She could travel no further. And so they stopped moving, took shelter in an outcropping of rocks.

Shielded from the blazing sun by an overhanging of rock, they huddled.

The man, his blue eyes ice chip hard on his grim face.

And his hands, calloused and scarred, tender upon her face as he helplessly witnessed her descent.

The boy, his thin, wiry body tense with worry and disquiet.

They tended to the woman, this once strong, stalwart woman.

Whose body deteriorated in an alarming, rapid, downward spiral.

Though she herself spoke not a word of complaint.

Three days passed and on the fourth, as the blazing evening sun was melting into the dry, unforgiving earth, she beckoned to the boy.

She held out her stick-thin arms to him and though he, at the age of ten was a grown man and too old for such childish things, he went to her.

She held him all through the night, her body shivering and trembling and pouring off heat.

He lay his head upon her sharp collarbone and did not complain. Something inside him whispered to stay still in her embrace, to give be there as she wished.

Because soon she would not be there at all.

And so he did, all through the night.

The longest, yet shortest hours of his young life.

He dozed and woke and dozed and woke in seemingly eternal night with her flagging presence close to him, her wheezing breath a constant upon his flesh.

The flesh that had grown from hers, that was the same as hers.

The mother and her son.

In the morning, as the sun rose to sear flame over the bleached, dry wasteland, she pressed her sandstone lips to his forehead and murmured his name with rasping, fading breath.

Then she sent him away to find his father.

Who clenched his jaw and silently made his way to her.

The boy stayed near the bikes, silent and still, staring afar off into the neverending emptiness.

And when the man returned alone, his dry eyes red rimmed and hollow, he loaded down only one bike and directed the boy not to look back.

But he did.

* * *

 **Yeah, sorry about this.**

 **But she never would have left him otherwise.**

 **And probably woulda punched Immortan Joe right in the dick.**

 **And I don't remember watching _that_ in the movie, do you? ;)**

 **Sorry again. Just trying to lighten the mood.**

 **Well, thanks to brigid1318 for your review and Nickisaysstuff for adding your support to this story! :)**


	5. Least of Three

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road.

Am drinking loads of water tho.

Out of Sand and Dust

Least of Three

* * *

Every time he left her side, he looked at her.

Her with her flame hair and deep blue eyes.

Because every time might be the last he would see her.

They were in flight, away from the War Parties, away from Immortan Joe.

Always on the edge of battle, on the edge of death.

And even if they had not been, he still would have taken a few precious seconds.

To drink her in. Memorize her features. Revitalize himself with her courage.

Allow her to pour her quiet strength and will into him with her eyes.

Because out here in the Wasteland, every time it might be the last.

* * *

Around the firelight, the men were talking, low grumbles in guttural tones.

Safe now with men. Safe now with no woman to protect.

The boy sat with them, near his father. All ears and no mouth.

"Heading off to the Bullet Farm, first light. Hear they put able backs to use in exchange for daily food."

"'S a rare find. Think it'll hold?"

"Maybe. Wortha shot anyway."

"Maybe we'll head out too then, the boy and me. Give it a go."

Negatory shakes of the head.

"No, don't take him there. Bullet Farmer runs through children like machine gun clips in war. Blow up too easy in the bullet fields."

A grim notion.

"But the Immortan of the Citadel, he'll keep him fed and find a spot for him with his war pups. Give him purpose, destiny, in the Cult of the V-8."

"Don't take grown men though. Too unpredictable, no loyalty. You'd end up thrown down with the Wretched. Thirst, starve in the sand. Send the boy. Be a mercy for him."

The father grunted noncommittedly.

No more separation. Too much already.

"And they've got aquacola."

"What?"

"They've got water there, fresh, clean water."

Thunderous silence.

Water. Real water. Clean. Fresh.

Fantasy, myth.

Had to be.

"Immortan won't kill him for his half-life either. He's got a man, the Organic Mechanic, who cares for the sick boys, keeps them running. Longer than anyone else can, I reckon."

Secret revealed. Clenched jaw.

"Half-life?"

"I seen him scratching. Growing tumors then, is he?"

Silence again.

"What about Gas Town?"

Muted, dark looks exchanged all around.

"Naw, it's run by the People Eater. He's got an affinity for boys. Uses 'em up, spits 'em out. No, I wouldn't send my dog there. And I ate my dog."

Chilling machinations in the dark.

"That won't happen at the Citadel?"

"Joe's got his Breeders, his Wives to keep him company. Naw, I reckon it's the safest place for him really."

Quiet consideration.

"So this Immortan's a good man?"

A bark of a humorless laugh.

"Now let's not go making cylones outta dust clouds. But of the three, he's the least of the worst."

* * *

His father's hand was rough and comforting on the back of his neck.

"Take care in the fields. Work. Work hard, but work with easy hands. And don't try to be a hero."

The boy nodded.

And found the fields at first light.

Work all day. Hard, back-breaking work.

But a meager portion of tasteless mush at the end.

And a small, ragged tent to sleep side by side in at night.

On the fourth day, the ground rocked and trembled violently, throwing workers to the dusty ground, rattling their bullet bags and bruising their bones.

As fire bloated up into the bleached out sky over field fourteen.

And screams of dying, mangled men floated toward them on waves of blistering heat.

The boy, huddled with the others in field nine, watched the flames with quiet dread.

And that night, the boy slept cold and alone in the ragged tent.

And every night thereafter.

* * *

"He's sick."

"Only a little."

"He's a half-life."

"Maybe."

"He'll infect the others. Get 'em out."

"He'll die alone in the Wasteland."

"Ain't my problem. He'll be too weak to work soon. Blow up in the field and waste my ammunition stock."

"Sending ammunition transport to the Citadel tomorrow. Could put him on that, send him up to the Immortan."

A disgusted grunt.

"You and your weeping heart. I'd put a bullet in his skull but it'd cost me a shot."

Cross pause.

"Fine. Send him on to Joe then. Let him waste supplies on him. Makes me no difference."

So the boy went.

Alone.

* * *

 **So now Nux's parents are both gone. Sad, I know.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay and nikkisaysstuff for your reviews. Thanks also to thimblesforneverlanders and Demon-Kagetsuki** **adding your support to this story. You guys are great!**


	6. Road to the Citadel

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road.

Am drinking loads of water tho.

Out of Sand and Dust

Road to the Citadel

* * *

The bloodbag had killed the Bullet Farmer and his men.

Brought back ammunition, a steering wheel.

And a boot.

For him.

A kindness.

Kindness.

Not a word the war boy knew.

Not much kindness to be found in the desolate Wasteland.

Not much at all.

* * *

The Bullet Farmer's ammunition transport had been attacked.

By rogue Buzzards. Out for a joy ride beyond the boundaries of their own territory.

Metal spikes, screeching and ripping across the armored transport vehicles.

Wrecking vehicles, skewering defenders.

Scavenging their shipment from the wreckage.

And overlooking the thin, scrawny, unconscious boy half buried in the sand.

* * *

When he came to, he was alone in the debris.

And alone with the dead, torn apart corpses of the Bullet Farmer's transport men.

Miles from the Bullet Farm.

Miles from the Citadel.

Miles from help, from hope.

He had escaped the merciless attack relatively unscathed.

When the vehicle he had been riding in the open back of had flipped in a terrific crash, he had been thrown free into a sand dune. Only superficial cuts and scrapes disfigured his Wasteland roughened flesh and he took no notice of them.

The sand below was baking his feet in their ragged, torn trappings.

But he took no notice.

The sun above was searing and burning as it had been every day of his life.

So he took no notice of that either.

The Buzzards were long gone and the mummifying dead were quiet and still, no danger to him.

And so he took no notice of them either.

What he did take notice of was his complete solitude and abandonment.

Without water.

Without food.

Without shelter.

Without hope.

At first he thought he might just lay back down in the rough, warm sand and wait to die.

But the man who had been his father and the woman who had been his mother had never done that nor encouraged him to.

And so he stood, on weakened legs.

And looked around.

In the far, far distance he saw faint plumes of smoke and smog.

His father had said that was Gas Town. Where the People Eater lived.

He remembered the grumbled fireside conversation about the People Eater and his hunger for boys.

So he turned away.

Saw only sand.

Turned.

Thought he sensed the Bullet Farm lying in the direction ahead of him.

The Bullet Farm. Where his father had gone into the fields and mines and not returned.

Turned.

And saw nothing.

For a moment as the heat shimmered up off the Wasteland sand.

Until his vision cleared.

And he thought he saw something.

Sand, rock. In the air.

Faint color at the top.

Far, far in the distance.

Not Bullet Farm. Not Gas Town.

He started to walk, keeping his poorly shod feet pointed toward the tall rock.

* * *

The rumbling of engines jolted him out of his walking stupor.

Hours, it had been hours.

Minutes?

Days.

Years?

He had been walking a long time.

Alternating between staring at the ground in front of him and the tall distant rock ahead of him.

Which seemed to be getting no closer.

He would collapse soon.

Collapse onto the hot sand.

Finally be still.

And die.

When he stopped walking, that's what would happen.

But he hadn't yet.

"Hey, boy! Where you coming from?"

The boy stopped, looked up.

It was a transport.

Big heavy machines.

Now rumbled to a stop.

A tall, pale figure, looking down at him from behind big, thick goggles.

"Ace! What is it?"

The figure turned momentarily.

"A boy."

And back.

"Boy? What boy?"

The man didn't answer.

"Hey, kid. You from Gas Town?"

The boy stared at him.

"Bullet Farm?"

No words. Too dry to speak.

"Were you on that transport to the Citadel?"

Another figure appeared next to the first.

"What's going on? What're we doing?"

The first man glanced over at his comrade.

"Replenishing our supply. War boys're running low."

The second man peered down at the skeletal child in the sand.

"What, him? He's already a corpse!"

The first man turned.

"I'm in charge, not you! Shut up and get back to your position!"

The second figure grumbled and disappeared.

The boy stood, wavering unsteadily, on the blistering sand.

"Get up here. We'll take you to the Citadel."

The boy stared at him.

"Come on, kid. We gotta keep moving."

The boy stared.

"What? You wanna die here?"

Stared.

"Last chance, kid."

And staggered toward the rig.

As the man pulled him aboard and dumped him on the hot metal bed of war rig, boy's legs buckled and he crumpled bonelessly down.

And knew no more.

* * *

 **Why did Ace stop and help him? Dunno. Why not?**

 **Anyway, thanks for your supportive reviews, DinahRay and brigid1318.**

 **Thanks also to the silent readers of the story. I appreciate you too. :)**


	7. In Chambers, Through Tunnels

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road .

Am drinking loads of water, tho.

Out of Sand and Dust

In Chambers, Through Tunnels

* * *

The bloodbag wanted to return to the Citadel.

Where there was green and aquacola.

He wanted them to run through the Immortan's war parties, blow the pass, and take the Citadel.

It sounded insane. So insane that no one would ever try it.

Except them.

And they wanted him to be a part of it.

Run. Fight.

Help them take the Citadel through misdirection and deceit.

She was looking at him expectantly, they all were.

And he felt an unfamiliar sensation growing deep in his V-8 emblazoned chest, emerging from the sleeping corners of his brain.

It felt like hope.

* * *

Ace was walking the boy through the dark chambers and tunnels of the Citadel.

Sounds of working metal and shouted interactions bounced and ricocheted off the rock walls encasing them.

The boy looked on in wonder.

And looked at everything.

People, boys, everywhere. He'd never seen so many. They looked the same, dressed the same.

All working on cars, trucks, bikes, rigs.

All working on metal.

Shaping it, strengthening it, shining it.

Consumed by it.

"What are those?"

From a distance, they looked like feathers or tassels hanging off the sides of the war boys' pants.

Though having seen neither, the boy did not know these words.

"Mechanic tools."

Indeed they were. Little specially shaped prongs and strips of metal attached to their pants with leather and cloth.

"A tool is his when a boy can use it to fix a machine."

Some had a few, some many.

"The ones with the most are Blackthumbs. They can fix anything, rig it to work, no matter how broken it is."

Several wild, shouting war boys ran by . . .

". . . test it out! Come on, Zig. . ."

. . . clutching shined-up steering wheels.

"And Revheads can drive any vehicle in any condition, through anything."

The boy watched them go.

"Why do they all look the same? Pale and dark with no hair?"

The man looked down at him, somewhere between annoyed and amused.

"You ask alot of questions."

The boy stared at him expectantly, waiting for the answer.

The man broke into a lopsided smile and chuckled, clapping him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.

The boy stumbled but kept his feet.

"They're Warboys. Black grease on the eyes keeps out the sun. White powder on the skin slows down the sick. Long enough to get to Valhalla."

The boy looked back at them.

"What's Valhalla?"

Ace's expression was unreadable through his grease-blackened eyes.

"Life after death. Walking with the Immortan, feasting with the heroes. Gotta earn your passage through the Gates though."

But the boy wasn't done yet.

"But how . . ."

The man growled without much real menace.

"Later, kid. Now . . ."

* * *

 **So Nux is in the Citadel. Only one more chapter to go, I think. This is not a full story, I know. But it's not meant to be.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, wildfly, and jgarci9 for those reviews. You guys are great!**


	8. Changeling

I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road .

Am drinking loads of water , tho .

Out of Sand and Dust

Changeling

* * *

In the quiet and still, he found himself gazing at the Immortan brand on the back of her neck.

Everybody had them.

In fact, in his war boy boy memory , he'd never seen anyone who didn't. It was just the way it was.

But for the first time, he considered that somebody shouldn't.

Her.

* * *

The boy sat. As still and as quiet as he could.

The rock on which he huddled was cold and hard.

He tried not to sniffle, moan, cry.

He didn't feel like himself.

Himself had gone away.

He didn't know what was left.

They'd shaved his head, those people who all looked the same, like the dead.

Shaved his head and covered him with pale dust.

Smeared dark grease around his eyes.

Took away his clothes and few meager possessions. Left him with a cast off pair of pants.

Then they'd held him down and claimed him for the Citadel, for the Immortan.

His neck burned. It burned. Right at the base where it met the shoulders. Right in the middle. Where they had pressed the red hot metal.

Right where they had branded him.

They said it was because he belonged to the Citadel now. To Immortan Joe. They said it was like having a family, being a part of something.

So he would fight for the Immortan and in turn the Immortan would take care of him when the time came.

If he was good and shine and not mediocre.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

But all he could remember now was the pain.

White hot searing pain.

The sound of chanting from the other War Boys.

The smell of his own cooking flesh.

The taste of sick as he tried to hold back his rising bile.

The sight of the grey rock floor as he stared at it, tried to stare _through_ it, past the pain.

And that pain, that pain so bad.

"'Eh, boy, let's have a look at you."

He glanced up, refreshing the agony in his neck.

And saw a tall man staring down at him.

Raggedly shorn hair, sketchy beard. Soiled tunic under leather apron covered with tools the boy had never seen before.

The man crouched down, ran a rough hand around the boy's skin.

Face, head, chest, stomach, hands, arms.

Paused over the small knots on his shoulder.

"Those itch, do they?"

The boy hesitated, then nodded.

The man grunted, nodded. Stood.

"Tired much?"

The boy thought. Shook his head. It hurt his neck.

The man grunted again.

"Yeah. Come later."

Tilted his head back to glance at the fresh, weeping brand on the boy's neck.

"Hurt, does it?"

The boy nodded, trying to ignore the renewed stinging of weak tears in his eyes.

The man nodded decisively and picked up a dented metal bowl from a nearby ledge.

"Yep, thought so. Here, this'll make it better."

And slapped a generous handful of thick, milky, white goo over the boy's neck, rubbing it none too gently into the inflamed, screaming flesh.

The boy gritted his teeth and dug his nails into his palms to keep from crying out.

"There. That'll take down the pain and keep you from getting an infection."

As black spots danced before the boy's eyes, the man grunted in satisfaction and rose.

"You," he called out across the dim space. "Come here."

The pain seemed to be ebbing but the boy couldn't be sure. There was so much of it.

"Sit here a while," Organic directed. "Keep him company."

The boy felt someone sit next to him. He didn't bother looking up.

He couldn't.

He was all used up.

For now.

"Hey. I'm Slit."

The boy didn't look up.

"What do they call you?"

He didn't answer.

He didn't really have a name. Not anymore.

So the question didn't matter.

Not really.

"Call him Nux," the man they called Organic suggested from where he had moved on to check another war boy.

The boy looked up at the man in the gloom.

The one who had changed his name.

"He's a tough nut to crack."

* * *

 **And so now we have Nux. Or at least the beginning of Nux.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for always reviewing and thanks to Wildfly for adding your support to this tale too. :)**


End file.
